Horseman of the Shadows Page 3

  Yes, the attention might be due to his having been recognized as El Halcón. Not necessarily so, however. Wimpy Hawkins was at the bar and had quite probably been regaling his companions with an account of the day’s happenings, in which Slade had played so prominent a part. Which would not unnaturally arouse the interest of those to whom he spoke.

  Well, it didn’t matter either way. Slade forgot the whole business and addressed himself to his food with the appetite of youth and perfect digestion.

  “I just can’t get over the way those hellions bamboozled Charley Arbaugh,” Serby remarked as he pushed back his empty plate, motioned the waiter for a snort, and hauled out his pipe.

  “Don’t blame Arbaugh too much for falling for it,” Slade said. “It was an exceedingly ingenious piece of work, decoying him and his hands with the phony rustling of that small bunch of critters, taking care that they left prints that would be plainly discernible. Not at all unnatural that Arbaugh and his hands headed after them. The devils knew better than to make a try for the shipping herd at night, knowing it would be closely guarded. As it was, they slipped a jigger into the thicket under cover of darkness, while the main bunch holed up where they could watch the casa.” Slade paused to roll and a light a cigarette, then continued —

  “When they saw Arbaugh ride off, they gave him time to get well in the clear, then headed for the shipping herd. When the man in the thicket saw them coming, he let Chick Courtney have it. Just luck on his part they didn’t kill him. Then there was nothing to keep them from running the herd to New Mexico.”

  “Except the fact that El Halcón happened to be in the section,” Serby commented.

  “Guess the element of luck played a part there, too,” Slade smiled. “Or rather, the Destiny that appears to often lend a hand when one is needed to uphold the right.”

  “Yep, that’s what you always say,” agreed Serby. “You’ve sorta got me believin’ it, too. Sure seems to work out where you are concerned.”

  “And behind that carefully planned and executed attempt today was somebody with brains and the ability to use them,” Slade concluded. “Typical of the criminal element invading the West of late. Quite different, unpleasantly so, from the old hard-hitting but direct outlaw whose moves could be anticipated and guarded against.”

  “You’re darn right,” growled the sheriff. “All a peace officer usta need was a good horse and a good gun. Now he has to be crammed full of brains, too, which ain’t overly common.”

  Slade smiled slightly. Although he refrained from doing so, he might have remarked that was why a Ranger was summoned, who, by training and experience was able to cope with the new brand of criminal as well as the old.

  Judson had another snort with the sheriff, Slade settling for more coffee, then announced, “I’m heading for bed. How about you, Slade? No use waiting for Wimpy; he’s good for all night.”

  “I’ll be along a little later,” El Halcón replied. “See you tomorrow.” Judson nodded and took his departure.

  When they were alone, Slade broached the matter of the sombrero left beside Arbaugh’s cows that had been run south, which had not been mentioned before. Serby listened attentively.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Slade answered. “There’s one obvious explanation, of course, just a bit too obvious it seems to me. Could be in the nature of a cover-up for whoever is operating in the section — with the Mexicans getting blame for what’s going on. No doubt but that the hat was planted for him to find, as I pointed out to Arbaugh. It was an expensive hat, the silver alone being worth plenty. Any rider who dropped it by accident, if he wasn’t actually running from hot lead, would certainly have paused long enough to retrieve it.”

  “Looks that way to me,” conceded Serby. “But if it wasn’t just a cover-up, what is it?”

  “One I’d like very much to have the answer to,” Slade replied. “Such things aren’t done without a definite objective in mind. But who could hope to profit by stirring up trouble between El Paso and Juarez, and how?”

  “Too much for me,” grunted Trevis. “I reckon you’ll figure it out, sooner or later.” He glanced toward the bar and chuckled.

  “Wimpy is getting well organized. Funny how likker affects different folks different. Some fellers get ugly and quarrelsome when they’ve had a snort too many. Wimpy just gets happy, and almost human. A funny jigger. Mean as a striped snake in some ways, but he sure is loyal to Judson. I’ve a notion that’s why he took a chance out on the trail and tried to throw down on you, even though you did have him covered. Was scairt you might do something bad to Sime.

  “He started out as a cowhand, I’ve heard. Turned to gambling and dealing. Judson saved him from getting his neck slit in a card game. Signed him up. Wimpy promised never to touch another card, and he never has. Well, if you haven’t anything else to discuss with me, I’m going in for a spell of ear pounding.”

  “I think I will also,” Slade answered. “A bed won’t go bad for a change. Slept under a tree last night, and the ground wasn’t as soft as it could have been. Let’s go!”

  They waved goodnight to Wimpy, who squealed joyous reply, and left the saloon. Serby headed for home, Slade for the hotel that was nearby. It wasn’t so very late, but he desired to get away from the noisy hullabaloo of Roony’s place and have a chance to do a little quiet thinking.

  He felt he had plenty to think about. From all appearances, the situation was as bad as the letters to Captain McNelty had indicated — with some overtones very likely not noted by the casual observer. He was convinced that a closely knit, shrewd, and ruthless organization was working the section, with a master-mind directing operations somewhere, possibly well covered up and suspected by no one.

  Who and where? To obtain the answers to those questions was his paramount chore, especially if he desired, as he did, to remain among the living.

  He hadn’t the slightest notion who to look for, of course, after only a few hours in El Paso, but his experience had been that the head of the outfit would, sooner or later, come looking for him. To the probability that the “looking” might be done over gun sights he gave a little thought. That was to be expected, and, were it not successful, might provide the opportunity he needed.

  Everything considered, he was pretty well satisfied with the short period he had been in the section, having frustrated a daring and ingenious widelooping and having made some friends that might well come in handy. Not a bad day’s work. In a complacent frame of mind he went to bed and was almost instantly asleep.

  4

  WHEN SLADE AWOKE, THE ANGLE OF THE SUNBEAMS STREAMing through the open window told him it was around mid morning. He shaved, cleaned up generally and sallied forth in search of some breakfast.

  Roony’s place would be as good as any, he decided, and he was apt to contact Sheriff Serby there, also with a surrounding in mind.

  He found the sheriff there, sitting at table with a big, rugged looking man with tawny hair, keen dark eyes, and a mouth that was firm almost to tightness. He wore a long black coat, black pantaloons, a white shirt with a ruffled front, and a black string tie. His feet were encased in polished, high-heeled riding boots. His hat was much the same as Slade’s rainshed, only black instead of gray. He gave an impression of solidity, both physical and mental.

  “Hello, Walt,” the sheriff greeted. “Want you to know Mr. Nelson Evers who owns the big grape farm over at the east end of the cultivated ground. Evers, this is Walt Slade I was telling you about.”

  “How are you, Mr. Slade?” said Evers, extending a big and muscular hand. “Trevis has been telling me a lot of good things about you. Glad to have you with us and hope you’ll see fit to make your stay permanent.

  “Yes, I own the vineyard to the east,” he said after Slade had occupied a chair and ordered a meal. “Time was when the Valley was famous for its golden wine made from golden grapes, an Asiatic variety said to have been introduced by the Franciscan m
onks. However, the farmers who have been pouring in from the East prefer grain, alfalfa, garden truck and orchard produce and the grape industry withered on the vine, if one may be permitted the expression.

  “But the soil, especially over to the east, is excellent for grapes. The old Mexican from whom I bought the land already had the vines planted, many of them old, but for lack of proper attention, careful pruning, and so forth, they were not fruiting as they should, the majority not at all. I changed all that in the past six months and expect a bumper crop this fall. Money in grapes, if they are handled as they should be. Sunk about all my capital in the land, but I look for good returns.”

  “No doubt you will receive them,” Slade replied. “This valley is fast becoming a real garden spot and anyone settling here should, with industry, prosper.”

  “That’s how I feel about it, as I was telling Trevis when you came in. If we can just put a stop to the trouble that has been cutting loose hereabouts of late.” He frowned, then smiled with a flash of teeth almost as white and even as Slade’s own.

  “But I’ve a notion our good sheriff will take care of everything before long.”

  “Haven’t had much luck so far,” Serby growled pessimistically.

  “You will have,” Evers assured him. “Well, I guess I’ll hafta be juning along. Have a few chores to take care of before I head back to my holding. Been a pleasure to know you, Mr. Slade. Yes, I hope you’ll see fit to coil your twine here.” With a nod and another smile he sauntered out, his step singularly light for so big a man.

  “Doesn’t seem to be a bad sort,” commented the sheriff. “Always pleasant, but I’ve a notion he could be tough if need be; he looks it.”

  “Very like,” Slade agreed. “Has been a cattleman, quite possibly an owner, I’d say. He employed several expressions peculiar to the range.

  “Nothing unusual about that, though. Quite a few cowmen turned to other pursuits during the period of readjustment to improved stock, when there was very little market for the Texas longhorns.”

  “Expect you’re right,” said Serby. “Dresses sorta between a gambler and a rancher, not like a farmer. Reckon you’d call grape-raising farming.”

  “Somewhat in that category,” Slade answered.

  “I sent a couple of deputies to pick up those carcasses,” Serby added. “Should be back with ‘em by the middle of the afternoon. Judson and Wimpy are staying over for the inquest this evening; just a waste of time, but the coroner figures he has to earn his pay.”

  Serby finished eating before Slade did and announced, “I’m heading for the office; you can find me there if you want me for anything.”

  Over a final cup of coffee and a cigarette, Slade pondered the situation as it stood, and what should be his next move. In fact, he had not the slightest idea where or how to move. Finally he decided the best thing would be to wander about the town a bit and try to pick up some information. He was just about to leave when a man entered who instantly attracted his attention. Would attract anybody’s attention, and hold it, Slade thought.

  Straight as an arrow, he was tall and thin, his face the face of an ascetic, and with black eyes that seemed to burn. Glancing neither to right nor left, he walked to the far end of the bar and ordered a drink.

  Roony, the owner, had just come on the job. The man engaged him in conversation for several minutes, ordered another drink and one for Roony, consumed it slowly. Then with a final word to the owner, he walked out with long, lithe strides. As he neared the swinging doors, his burning gaze rested on Slade’s face for an instant, and the Ranger thought his thin lips tightened. He wondered who and what the fellow might be.

  His curiosity on those points was quickly assuaged. Roony sauntered to the table and sat down.

  “Notice that feller who just left?” he asked.

  Slade nodded. “I was wondering whom he might be,” he replied.

  “He’s sorta head man of the farmers,” Roony explained. “Owns a big one and a good one between here and the Pass. Ain’t got any use for the cattlemen. Ain’t got any use for the Mexicans. Fact is, I sometimes wonder if he’s got any use for anybody, even himself. A horny old hellion for fair.”

  “Perhaps he just doesn’t understand,” Slade hazarded. Roony snorted.

  “Don’t take much understanding to be decent to your fellowmen,” he growled in his voice that was so deep and sonorous for so small a man. “Oh, he don’t seem to bother anybody, but he shows you mighty quick he just don’t want no part of you. He’s civil enough to me. Because he drinks here, I reckon; but he always got somebody to complain about. This time it was the sheriff for not keeping better order. Said somebody took a shot at him from the brush the other evening. Wouldn’t be surprised. Wouldn’t be surprised if he would take a shot from the brush at somebody. Strikes me as being that sort.” He paused and twinkled his little deep-set eyes at Slade.

  “Saw him take a look at you as he went out. Reckon he don’t approve of the notorious El Halcón, either. Well, I expect quite a few more scalawags hereabouts don’t approve of you, after what you did to some of their brand the last time you were here. Good huntin’! I’ll send over a drink. The feller’s name? Gregory Cole.”

  Slade accepted the drink, and devoted a little thought to Gregory Cole. Very likely a man of fanatical hatreds. The sort that sometimes vented their spleen against humanity in general in unusual ways. He put Cole in the back of his mind for future reference. Waving so-long to Roony, he sauntered out into the sunshine.

  Gone were the days when — before the coming of the railroads — El Paso was only a huddle of squat, one-story adobe houses wedged in between the mountain range and the river, without even a Mission tower to break its flat skyline, with the business section consisting of two stage stations with corrals, a ramshackle hotel, a few stores, and enough saloons to satisfy everybody.

  Now there were plenty of substantial buildings, and more being erected — comfortable residences, largely of a modified Spanish or Pueblo architecture were going up near the mountain, their roofs bright against the gray rocks. El Paso was fast becoming a city in fact as well as in name.

  The town was bustling and prosperous, and exuded a cheerful air despite the recent depredations and differences of opinion that engendered a certain amount of suspicion and distrust.

  Gradually Slade worked his way toward the riverfront, where there was always plenty of activity, some of it questionable at times. He paused to gaze at the towering span of the International Bridge at the foot of Santa Fe Street, that crossed the river to Juarez. He liked Juarez, colorful, gay, and resolved to visit the Mexican town in the near future. Abruptly his eyes narrowed with interest.

  About the middle of the span there appeared to be some sort of a commotion on the bridge. He could see heads bobbing toward the El Paso shore and hear voices shouting. His curiosity intrigued, he turned a couple of corners and walked down Santa Fe Street, neared the approach and was right on top of an activity unusual even for the riverfront.

  Clumped near the bridge head were some twenty or thirty El Paso waterfront workers. Rushing down the approach was an equal number of Mexican workers from the far side of the river, shouting, gesticulating.

  Another moment and the two groups closed in a wild melee of fists and feet, gouging and butting to the accompaniment of vivid profanity in two languages.

  “What in blazes!” the Ranger wondered in amazement.

  Suddenly he saw steel flashing. At this rate somebody was going to get hurt. He slid one of the big Colts from its sheath and sent a couple of slugs screeching over the heads of the battlers, close.

  That stopped the fighting. Slade’s great voice rolled in thunder above the tumult —

  “Hold it! Have you fellows gone completely loco? What’s this all about?”

  A veritable bedlam of yells and accusations answered him, from which he couldn’t make head or tail.

  “Shut up!” he thundered again. He got silence, save for a mutter that ra
n through the ranks of the Mexicans —

  “El Halcón! It is El Halcón!”

  Some of the Texans had also heard that name. They stared at the grim figure confronting them, gun in hand. Slade spoke quietly.

  “Who are the foremen of these gangs?” he asked. “Come forward and explain yourselves. Why are you fellows on the prod against one another?”

  Again the pandemonium of yells —

  “They told us to stay on our side of the river, if we came over here they were going to throw us all in it!” a voice made itself heard above the others.

  “They sent word they were coming over here and clean us!” bawled a Texan.

  “Shut up!” Slade told them once more. “The foremen, step forward, I said.”

  A big Texan shuffled to the front, and a wiry Mexican. “We are here, Capitan,” he said. The Texan growled agreement. Slade turned to him first.

  “Did you fellows send word across the river, telling your amigos over there to stay where they were?” he asked.

  “We did not,” the Texan answered. His followers shouted support of the reply.

  “And you,” Slade said to the Mexican foreman, “did you send word you were going to come over here and massacre your amigos on this side?”

  “Capitan, we would never have thought of doing such a thing,” the other replied.

  “I see,” Slade said. “Then just what did happen to get you fellows on the prod?” He motioned to the Texan, who scratched his head, hesitated, then replied —

  “A feller came hustlin’ across the bridge, a big feller with whiskers, and told us we’d better get ready for trouble ‘cause it was coming our way fast. We got ready.”

  “Did you know the fellow who brought the word?” Slade asked. The Texan shook his head.